Three nights had passed since One Swing arrived in the city of Gran Torte. Three nights since he had met the mysteriously long woman climbing out of the sewer.
After purchasing two large barrels of ale for the woman, as well as several bottles of stronger spirits, she happily tucked the bottles away beneath her cloak and—passing One Swing back his sword—effortlessly hoisted the two barrels up at by her sides and promptly disappeared into the night again.
Taking a moment to watch as her shadowy figure scurried off into a dark alley, One Swing went back to his inn-hunting and eventually found a suitably lengthy place to rest on the third floor of a cheap inn. Leaving his sword to rest on the streets below.
When morning came, One Swing ventured out into the city once more, eventually finding the stadium that Grapple had told him about. The Krumbledome. True to its name, the high marble walls of the stadium stretched up into the sky, before curving inwards to form a very dome-like structure with no roof. It was probably closer to a bowl, One Swing thought, but the clever architecture made it appear as if it was dome-shaped, at least.
Aside from a few guards and working staff, the stadium was empty. It seemed that there were no fights planned for that day. Finding Grapple Krumble waiting for him there, he was shown around the facility and then offered a place in the upcoming tournament in two days.
With time to kill before his D-Rank exam, One Swing accepted.
Two days later, One Swing found himself back inside the stadium once again, on standby in one of the private waiting rooms below the arena. The muffled chatter and cheering coming from above was a clear signal that today was the day. The day of the tournament.
It was only a small tournament, set up for a handful of competitors to compete over a small sum of money. Though big bloodsport events were often held in this stadium, this tournament was not one of them. It was more of a short, friendlier bout, where competitors fought using dulled practice weapons against one another. Because of that, One Swing was not allowed to use his own sword for this tournament and had to begrudgingly leave it outside of the stadium.
Seated alone in his waiting room, a sudden knock turned his attention to the door. A voice called out from the other side.
“Mr. One Swing? Your match will begin soon. If you’d like to pick a weapon from the armoury, you may do so now.”
Standing to his feet, One Swing stepped out of the room and followed the staff that was at the door to the stadium's armoury. Because he wasn't allowed his own weapon in the arena, he'd have to choose another to use.
One Swing stepped into the room and browsed through the weapons that were available. To his surprise, there were actually quite a lot. Weapons of all lengths lined the walls of the large room. Most of them resting in one of two lengthy weapon racks of wood and metal that stretched all the way across from one side of the room to the other. Spears. Flails. Two-handed greatswords. Of course, the edges of any bladed weapons had been dulled, and anything with enough weight to prove fatal had been greatly lightened.
Carefully browsing through the selection, he eventually came to a stop in front of something he liked, and gestured towards the stadium attendant waiting nearby.
“I’ll take this one,” he said, pointing towards his selected weapon.
“You’ll be taking the greatsword then?”
“No, not the sword.” One Swing shook his head and then pointed towards the weapon rack once again. “This one.”
“Ah, the spear, is it?”
“Not the spear. This one.”
“The… flail then? I’m sorry, I can’t really tell what you’re pointing at, but anything in this room is fine to use. I need to check in with the other competitors as well, so If you’ve made your pick, please proceed to the gate at the edge of the arena. If you need directions, feel free to ask any of the staff.”
And with that, the attendant turned away, and left out the door, leaving the man alone in the armoury.
“Well, I suppose I should make my way to the arena then.” One Swing nodded to himself and gripped his lengthy new weapon. It seemed to be bolted to the wall for some reason, but One Swing was able to easily pull it away.
Slinging it across his shoulder, he stepped out of the armoury and made his way through the stadium and to one of the tunnels leading to the arena. For reasons he couldn't discern, many of the staff gave him an odd glare as he passed them by, but One Swing simply ignored them and carried on.
Making it to the end of the tunnel, he stopped at the gate leading into the arena. From between the gaps of the metal bars, he could see the sunlit dirt that made up the central fighting pit, and above it, crowds of excited people waiting in the stands above.
Waiting nearby, a member of the addressed him.
“You’re… One Swing, correct?” the man asked, checking his clipboard.
“I am.” One Swing nodded.
“Is that…?” The man gave the weapon across One Swing’s shoulder a puzzled glance. “D-did you get permission to use that? I don’t know if that’s allowed…”
“Isn't it?” One Swing tilted his head to the side. “I was told it was okay by another member of staff. They told me anything in the room was fine to use.”
“O-oh. Well, if they said it was fine…” Tearing his eyes away from the weapon, the man continued. “The match will begin shortly. Once your gate opens, you and your opponent will step into the center of the field. From there, Mr. Krumble will introduce you over the loudspeaker, and then signal for the match to begin. Only then are you allowed to fight. Understood?”
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“… Loudspeaker?” One Swing tilted his head again.
“Oh, it’s something invented by the dwarves. It can make someone’s voice louder, and carry it all across the stadium. You’ll see when you get on the field.”
“Fascinating.” One Swing nodded in appreciation of the dwarven contraption. “An invention that can carry one’s voice long distances is wonderful indeed. How does it work?”
"Well, I know they built a big system of pipes beneath the ground that runs all across the arena. As for how those pipes carry someone’s voice around, I couldn’t tell you.”
“Fascinating…”
As One Swing became lost in the thoughts of lengthy pipes built beneath the ground, the man with the clipboard turned away to head back up the tunnel.
“I’ll go tell Mr. Krumble that you’re ready,” he said, making his leave. “Your first match will start shortly.”
And then, taking his clipboard with him, he briskly walked back the way One Swing had come from and disappeared around the corner in the distance.
A short while later, a loud voice rumbled across the arena, catching One Swing’s attention.
“Alright, brothers and sisters, it’s time to start the next match!”
One Swing recognized the voice. It was the voice of Grapple Krumble. Through the ingenuity of dwarven technology, his voice was being projected across the entire length of the stadium. From above his head, One Swing could hear the muffled cheers of the audience in the stands, excited by the match to come.
“Let’s introduce our next competitors!” the voice continued. “Open the gates!”
At Grapple’s words, the metal gate in front of One Swing began to lift. With the weapon he selected from the armoury still slung across his shoulder, he stepped out into the sun, and onto the hardened dirt of the arena’s battlefield.
“Introducing our first competitor! Coming all the way from the town of Panettone…”
Grapple’s voice continued to echo across the stadium as he introduced One Swing’s opponent. One Swing wasn’t paying much attention, however, as he was more interested in the loudspeaker system that was projecting Grapple’s voice. Looking out towards the stands, he could see the large, shirtless man in a section of his own, with his moustached mouth pressed up against some kind of metallic tube at his side. Looking around the arena, One Swing noticed that the sound of his voice was coming out from several cone-shaped heads sitting atop tall metal poles, scattered all across the stadium.
As for the stadium itself, it had many layered sections for the crowds to sit and watch the arena below. From what One Swing could see, the gigantic structure could’ve easily fit a hundred thousand or more across the stands. But being only a small tournament, it seemed that not even a tenth of that number turned up to watch today’s bouts.
Stopping in the center of the field, One Swing turned his attention back to the rumbling echo of Grapple’s voice.
“… our next competitor! He’s a rookie adventurer who’s quickly making a name for himself as he climbs his way up to S-Rank! It’s a man who’s known to beat all of his opponents in a single strike! It’s a man who strives to one day become the longest in the whole world! What does that even mean?! I still don’t know! But here he is! The E-Rank adventurer, One Swing!”
The crowds clapped and cheered as One Swing turned to give them a short bow.
“I was wondering how he was going to fight without his usual sword, but it seems like One Swing’s brought something crazy into the arena for his match! Is that even allowed?! I guess it must be if they let him through the gate!”
Tightening his grip on the lengthy weapon across his shoulder, One Swing smirked.
Standing across the dirt from him was his opponent. He was an older-looking wolfman, dressed in plain robes, and gripped between his hands was a thick, wooden quarterstaff. A respectably lengthy weapon, One Swing thought.
“Alright, enough of the introductions! It’s time to get this match started! Let’s get ready to Krumble! Let the battle… begin!”
On that signal, the wolfman across the field immediately dipped into a fighting stance. From what One Swing could tell, the man in front of him was very proficient in some kind of martial art. He had obviously spent a lot of long years practicing to perfect the technique of his lengthy staff.
The man's hands were a blur as he spun the staff around him as if it were another part of his body. His sandaled feet glided gracefully over the dirt as he inched closer towards One Swing, one cautious step at a time. The fluttering of his long robes acted almost as an illusion, deceitfully masking every graceful movement the man made through the purposeful manipulation of his loose clothing.
It was like watching a mirage, One Swing thought. Was he moving closer? Had he even moved since the start of the match? The man was clearly a master of his craft, and One Swing found his sense of perception being warped by the man’s skillful illusory technique…
—And so One Swing swung his weapon down in front of him.
It didn’t matter how skilled the man was. One Swing’s weapon was longer, and that’s all that mattered. Because, as One Swing knew, the longest is the strongest.
“Life-Ending Technique Buster—!” One Swing shouted. It was the name of his beloved sword. Part of its name, at least. It was as much of its name as One Swing could reasonably call out between the start of his swing and the moment of impact. However, this was not One Swing’s sword. One Swing’s sword was still lying on the streets outside the stadium...
The lengthy body of the armoury’s weapon rack tore down through the air in front of One Swing as he swung it down, all of the weapons still held inside of it rattling noisily against the metallic frame.
After being told anything in the armoury was fine to use, he had decided to pull the entire rack of weapons off the wall, slinging it across his shoulder to use in his upcoming match. It was only a fraction of the size of his usual weapon, but it was still the longest thing that was available to him at the time.
Leaving a dull grey glint streaking across the air, the giant rack of weapons slammed into the ground in front of him. An assortment of weapons exploded out across the field as the frame made impact with the ground, showering the battlefield in dirt and splintered wood.
As the dust finally settled, and the noisy clattering of scattered weapons came to a stop, One Swing lifted the weapon rack from the dirt and heaved the thirty-three-foot-long frame across his shoulder, leaving it to trail ten meters behind his back.
With his robe in tatters and the wooden quarterstaff scattered into splintered pieces, One Swing found the bloodied and broken body of the wolfman lying amongst the lengthy crater stretching across the dirt. Completely unconscious.
Knowing that he was the victor of this match, One Swing smirked.